11: Prodigal
by cathrl
Summary: The war's continuing, with G-Force still at the forefront. Mark's departure seems permanent. Jason's in command now.    And then, out of the blue, there's a message.
1. Chapter 1

As always, if it's canon it doesn't belong to me.

Thanks to Julie Bloss Kelsey and my husband for beta-reading, and to the members of Bird Scramble for their comments.

This is set some way down a long-running story arc. I've tried to make it somewhat standalone - but if you want to know how things got to this stage, I recommend you go back and start with "All Good Things". Canon-wise, it's some time after the end of the series. In terms of my fic, it's after "Return to the Red Planet".

**Prodigal**

Jason hadn't paid more than a flying visit to Team Seven for as long as he could remember. Once, maybe twice, since Mark had walked out on them five long months ago. Today he'd made the effort. He badly needed to do something different, which didn't involve memories of just how much less effective G-Force was these days. He'd never have thought that sifting through intelligence reports could be attractive. It wasn't, but it was better than sitting in the ready room wondering how to take five seconds off their time from this morning's simulation, in the full knowledge that with Mark instead of Rick they'd been forty seconds faster.

Today, then, after an assortment of questions about the Spectran language immersion course he was allegedly taking, there were six of them sitting around the big worktable, scanning through a six inch pile of reports from people who thought they had seen evidence of a Spectran base. Dave O'Leary was regaling them with tales of the time he'd been involved with a real base bust, and Jason was struggling to keep a straight face. He might not have been there at the time, having been engaged in his first, last, and hopefully only encounter with the 'flu, but he had read the report, and he was pretty sure Team Seven hadn't exactly played the pivotal all-action role Dave was claiming. Fortunately, Dave considered himself quite the comic, and Jason wasn't the only one smiling.

"And then the Eagle said -" was cut short by a bleep from the communicator in the centre of the table.

"Lieutenant Alouita to my office, stat."

Jason sighed inwardly. He'd thought Nykinnen had more sense than to ask why the new commander of G-Force hadn't been seen doing his cover job too much recently. Still, maybe it was better for Nykinnen to haul him in, in case the rest of Team Seven wondered why it hadn't happened?

He knocked on the door of the Team Seven commander's office and went in to find Nykinnen looking more flustered than he'd ever seen him.

"Commander? You wanted to see me?"

"The gate guards say they have someone there claiming to be Mark Jarrald."

Jason put out a hand to the doorframe for support, staring wordlessly.

"He wouldn't give an entry code, just asked them to contact you."

_Mark figured out Anderson would have blanked his entry code, or more likely set it to call security_... "I'll go bring him in. Don't go anywhere - I may need your authorisation to get him through the gate." As Nykinnen nodded, Jason left the office at a run. Just for once, his car was parked out front in one of the very few spaces allocated to Team Seven near to the building, and was far closer than the gate was. He'd drive.

It didn't really hit him until he was in the car and headed for the front gate, half a mile or so distant at the end of a long drive. Mark had come back. But in what state? Was he just going to waltz in, fully recovered, and demand his command back? Maybe he'd found out what was wrong with him and wanted treatment? Maybe he'd simply run out of money. If complex medical treatment was involved, that was far from unlikely.

And then he walked into the gatehouse and it all became completely irrelevant.

An ISO sergeant was crouched on the floor, his back to the door in a way that would have brought him an instant reprimand from anyone checking up on proper procedure. Jason didn't care. The sergeant was bent over a jeans-clad figure who was convulsing on the floor, and there weren't too many candidates for who that figure was.

He was alongside in two strides, and there was no doubt.

"Mark?"

The sergeant jumped a mile, and swung round in some semblance of alertness. "You can't be in here."

"I'm Lieutenant Alouita. Get back to your job. I'll see to Mark."

He dropped to his knees at the other's head, going into full paramedic mode. Mark was breathing fine, if raggedly, his colour was good, he wasn't bleeding anywhere. He was just convulsing like there was no tomorrow.

"It's Jason. Come on, Mark, talk to me!"

Mark opened his eyes, choked out, "Jase - help me!" and shut them tight again as the convulsions worsened.

And a car drew up outside, forcing the guard to go out and deal with it. Breathing a prayer of thanks for small mercies, Jason hastily sprawled on the floor alongside his old friend. No time for quiet focus now. He had only seconds to try to pick up what was wrong with Mark, and whether it was safe to move him. Back to back, implant to implant, reach out and feel what the other was feeling.

The next thing he knew, he was on his feet at the other side of the guardhouse, gasping in disbelief. That hadn't been pain. That had been pure, unadulterated jagged wrongness pouring through his implant. That wasn't normal, or even caused by illness. The closest analogy he could think of was electronic static, and that meant it was the implant itself malfunctioning. Had to be.

He'd seen enough. Jason put a hand on the other's shoulder, hoping it would be comforting. "Hang in there. I'll get Chris." And turned back to the guard, just coming back into the room. "I need your phone."

The sergeant gestured to it. He was unusually low-ranking for an officer with this posting, in Jason's experience, and also rather older than the average. Senior and with common-sense, rather than high-flying. And with at least some degree of sympathy. "Can I do anything?"

"Just do your job." Jason had already finished dialing. "Come on, Chris, pick up the damn phone!"

There was no response. Jason put the receiver down, considering. "Can you help me get him in the car?"

"Sorry, sir." The sergeant might be sympathetic, but he knew his job. "You don't have the authority to clear him past this point."

Jason glanced at him, at Mark, twitching helplessly on the floor in what looked like the last stages of exhaustion, and picked up the phone again, barely resisting the temptation to pull out his bracelet and ask just how much authority the man thought he needed. If this phone call didn't get answered, he might well be doing it.

"Nykinnen."

"Alouita. I'm in the gatehouse. I need you to get Chris Johnson here, stat."

"You got it."

Nykinnen could put things in motion that Jason couldn't, not without using his bracelet or saying things over the phone which would make it far too clear who he really was. Jason mentally gave him three minutes and went back to Mark's side. Not that there was anything he could do, beyond the hand on the other's shoulder to let him know he wasn't alone. He'd rarely felt so completely helpless.

Two minutes later the phone rang, and the guard quickly passed it down to Jason.

"It's Chris."

"Mark's here, convulsing like crazy." He'd have liked to add 'it's the implant', but didn't dare, not in public.

"I'm coming." And the phone went dead.

Jason tightened his grip on Mark's shoulder. "You hear that? Chris is on his way. He'll have something to help."

Mark's whimper was so quiet he barely caught it. "...thinks I'm imagining..."

"No way in hell you're imagining this. Hang in there." He knelt up slightly, just enough to see down the road towards the main buildings. _Hurry up, Chris_._ He's a real mess_.

The doctor's car screeched to a skidding halt that had Jason wincing in sympathy for the tyres, and Chris Johnson came through the door with a peremptory wave of a badge at the guard, dropping to his knees alongside Jason.

"Mark, it's Chris. Can you talk to me?"

"Can't...stop."

"How long has this been going on?"

Mark just gasped, and the guard offered, "He seemed fine when he came in here. He collapsed right after asking me to call the lieutenant."

"Lieutenant? Ah, yes. Jason, how long?"

"Ten minutes? Fifteen? It was more violent than this when I got here."

Chris nodded, raising his voice again in that clear 'listen to me' tone. "Mark, have you taken any drugs recently?"

"No," he managed, barely. "Chris...I need..."

"It's coming." The doctor turned away to the case that he'd put out of reach of Mark's thrashing form. "Jason, get me an IV injection site, as still as you can get him."

"IM -"

"He needs it now, not in ten minutes."

"Okay." Jason grabbed the guard's arm. "Help me hold him still."

Even with Mark exhausted - and from more than just this one bout of convulsions, if Jason was any judge - it wasn't easy, and it took all of their strength to hold him still in a position where he couldn't hurt himself. Jason thanked heaven for warm weather and short sleeves, as Chris expertly slid the needle into a vein near Mark's elbow and emptied three different syringes into it, followed by applying pressure as the needle was removed.

"Mark, I've given you relaxant, painkiller and anticonvulsant. You're going to feel much better, very soon, and then we'll get you back to ISO, get you rehydrated, and figure out what's going on."

The guard, obviously uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "Sir, I'm so sorry - I still can't let this man in."

Chris simply fumbled his ID badge free with his spare hand, and held it up behind him.

"I apologise, Doctor. You have sufficient authorisation."

By the time the ISO ambulance pulled up a few minutes later, Mark was mostly calm and still, rolled onto his side, eyes shut, still twitching every few seconds. Chris's face was grave, though, and he kept one hand on the other's pulse, even as Mark was lifted onto the gurney and carried to the waiting van.

"I hope he's going to be okay," the guard said as the ambulance doors closed.

"So do I." Jason climbed into his own car and realised his hands were shaking on the wheel. _So do I_.


	2. Chapter 2

There was only one level of alert that provoked an audible alarm from Mike Bennett's email system, and that was only because he'd not yet found a way to disable it. The visible alert was, he considered, quite sufficient, and didn't make him jump and lose his train of thought.

It was always the same message too, carefully worded to give nothing away to anyone else who might be in his office at the time. 'Can I see you? Chris Johnson.' That message, that alert, all meant one thing only. He was needed in black section, right away. One of the implantees had an urgent problem.

#

"Dr Bennett," he was greeted by the guard on the front desk of black section. "Good to see you again, sir."

Mike nodded absently. All the lights were green - no current alert, no recent mission. Not a combat injury, then. Most likely one of the new implantees, and he couldn't even begin to guess which. They'd all been doing so well - more than half of them didn't even class as recent any more. He hated the thought of the obvious conclusion: rejection by their newest hope. That would be a sickening blow.

Johnson's assistant greeted him with a wave, and pointed him to the sideroom with no attempt at conversation. Mike tapped sharply on the door, and pushed it open without waiting for acknowledgement. It had to be desperately urgent, or Chris wouldn't have summoned him like that in the first place.

He almost didn't recognise the man on the bed, so sure had he been that it would be one of the new recruits. It took a deep breath for him to banish all thoughts of implant rejection treatment and start remembering everything he knew about the older models. Much older models, from before his time. This man's implant had been in for almost twenty years.

"What do we have?"

"His implant's pouring static."

Mike jumped - he hadn't seen Alouita standing silently in the corner, and the G-Force commander's tone was accusatory to say the least.

"You've had a probe on him?" he asked in some confusion. Johnson never went near the electronics, normally, and Alouita didn't even class as medical staff.

"I don't need a probe to tell you the problem's his implant."

"Jason, you're not helping." Johnson turned to him, one hand still on Mark's shoulder. "He's convulsing, and the standard drugs aren't helping. Relaxants work, but I've had to pump him so full of them he'll not be answering any questions. Sorry."

The standard anticonvulsant drugs worked on the brain, relaxants directly on the muscles, Mike knew. That would certainly fit with an implant problem.

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes. Just not able to communicate."

"I see." Mike pulled the cart of equipment which lived in this room towards him. He suspected he knew exactly what the problem was, now he'd had time to think about it. Mark had been having problems with his implant going out of tune even before he'd quit on them. That had been five months ago now, and five months of it slipping further and further could well have it in a far from optimal state. That, he could fix. Two probes in the back of the neck, return everything to the default settings for a start, have Chris give him something to flush the drugs out of his system, and then retune Mark's implant properly. He presumed Alouita was in here to make quite sure his former commander didn't run off again afterwards.

"I'll need him lying face down."

"Hmm. Side do? I don't like his breathing right now."

Drugged to the eyeballs and beyond - maybe Johnson was making sure, too. "Provided he's still and I've got clear access to his neck, side will do."

Chris nodded. "Jason, can you give me a hand here?"

The young man crossed to the bed, and the two of them efficiently rolled his patient into a much better position: lying on his side, wedges front and back to prevent him from rolling over.

Chris crouched down so that his head was level with Mark's. "Okay, Dr Bennett's going to retune your implant, and then we'll flush the drugs out and you can get some rest."

There was an incomprehensibly slurred response, to which Chris responded, "Don't worry about anything, Mark. Just lie still. Mike, he's all yours."

Mike would have preferred to do this without the Condor's eyes on him, but he knew Jason well enough to realise that protesting would be useless. In any case, he could insert tuning probes in his sleep, accusing eyes burning a hole in the back of his head notwithstanding. Implants went out of tune. It happened. It was hardly his fault if Mark Jarrald had decided to vanish for five months.

"Here we go, Mark." He eased the probes in, years of practice guiding them straight to the output ports on the chip. "Let's see what's going on in there."

The screen filled with jagged spikes, and he bit back a curse. This was a lousy time for an equipment failure. "Chris, I need someone to fetch the spare 'scope."

"No, you don't." There was an edge in Jason's voice that stopped both of them in their tracks. "That's exactly what I got from his implant. Retuning isn't going to do squat. That implant's trashed."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Mike responded automatically, but inwardly he was forced to admit that Jason might be right. Even Wade's implant, abused by ungentle Spectran probes and untuned for a period of years rather than months, hadn't been outputting rubbish like this. He was absolutely sure that a plain retune wasn't going to fix it. It might help, though. If he could take the edge off, it had to be a good thing.

"Mark, I'm going to adjust your implant now, try to get rid of some of this static for you." He left the secondary probe in place, transmitting to the 'scope screen, and eased the primary one up to the control port he hoped would damp the output. "Here we go."

He'd barely touched it when Chris Johnson barked, "Stop!"

Mike did just that, years of working with together meaning there was no need for discussion or explanation. He backed the probe off just far away to break contact, and waited to find out what was going on.

"Steady there, Mark." Chris had a hand on the young man's pulse, his eyes fixed on the monitor, and Mike belatedly realised just how ragged Mark's breathing had become. "Did that hurt?"

"What kind of damn stupid question -" Jason began, but Mike needed no more demonstration that this wasn't going to work, and he certainly wasn't going to stand around and be told his job by a paramedic, even if that paramedic did command G-Force.

"Pulling out now. I'm going to need to see the chip properly, Chris, and without hurting him. You'd best get the anaesthetist here. I have no idea how long this is going to take me to fix."

* * *

><p>There was something wrong with his implant. Jason had felt it. Jason knew he wasn't imagining it.<p>

Mark had never been so relieved to hear anything in his life. Implants were electronic. Electronics could be fixed. It wasn't MS. It wasn't a psychological problem. It was a real, measurable, electronic fault.

If he hadn't been so drugged he could barely blink, he would have sobbed with relief. It was going to be fine. Mike Bennett would fix it. Oh, it would take him a while to come back from this. Mark was under no illusions as to just how far his fitness level had fallen over the last five months. Over the last few weeks it had plummeted, as the muscle spasms worsened, became more frequent, got to the point where he couldn't pretend they were anything other than convulsions. But that was over now. Electronics didn't need time to heal. When he woke up from the operation, he'd be horribly unfit, and he'd be as miserable as he always was from general anaesthetic, but he'd be basically fine.

* * *

><p>At least the Condor had gone back to his real job, rather than breathing down his neck in the operating theatre. Mike was grateful for that as he stood back and waited for Chris Johnson to open Mark up, to give full access to the chip on his spine. Mike himself wasn't a doctor, not that sort of doctor, anyway, despite the title - he'd been recruited to work on the ISO cerebonic implant program based on his research on AI nanotechnology. He'd never expected to be putting these things in people. And this one wasn't even his. Mark's implant was an elderly Russian model, its designer no longer alive. He'd retuned it many times, studied the diagrams of its circuitry intensively, tried to make sense of why Mark had such a different response to the people he'd implanted himself. He'd never got to the bottom of it. And he'd never even seen the implant for real.<p>

"He's all yours, Mike," Johnson said, and he stepped forward to see what he was faced with.

Surgeons always did this so tidily. There was a perfect slit in the skin, held open above and below the area in question. Visible inside was the white bone of the young man's spine with the half-inch golden square of the implant embedded in it. From the start it didn't look good. He'd known Mark had been very young when he'd been implanted, but the deformation of the surface of the vertebra around the chip brought it home to him. From the looks of it, when the procedure had been carried out, the bone had been not much larger than the chip being attached to it.

"Okay," he said purely for the record, since he and Chris had already discussed the procedure. "I'm going to start by testing all the connections directly, not going via the output ports. Switching to magnified view." He pulled in the high-definition camera, positioned it carefully an inch above the implant, eased his hands into the micro-manipulation gloves, and went to work. Other neurosurgeons used magnifier glasses for similar operations, but Mike had always found them heavy and uncomfortable. He much preferred to work with the view on the screen.

Speed was relative with anything this complex, but he quite quickly determined that there was nothing wrong with the connection to the second implant, or indeed with the signals coming from it. That was something, at least. He continued to work his way methodically round the multitude of tiny wires coming out of the primary chip and diving into bone long since completely healed around them. To his relief, he continued to get completely normal results. Trying to fix a broken wire inside the vertebra would have been near impossible.

The last set was different. This contained the connections which controlled physical movement, when the implant was active, by raw stimulation of the nerves, far faster than the usual electrochemical reactions. And right now, two of the channels were responding normally, three were completely dead, and the remainder were spitting the same vicious static he'd picked up from the sensor ports. So, it was at least consistent and reproducible. But, by itself, insufficient information. He'd really, really hoped for a visible break in a wire, perhaps short-circuiting a couple of others. What he had was perfect input, perfect connections. The fault was internal.

"I'm going to need to take a look inside the chip," he announced. "How's he doing?"

"Fine so far," the anaesthetist told him. Mike had worked with Andy Wilson many times before. He knew that 'fine' only meant 'fine for an implantee' and that, to keep him under, Mark would be under a dose of anaesthetic which would make a normal human very sick indeed. He had to get on with it.

"Good," he said, selecting the tool he'd need to lever open a chip which had been sealed for almost twenty years. He'd really hoped he'd never have to do this, never had before. He mentally crossed his fingers, zoomed right in on the recess on the seam of the chip, and carefully inserted the flat end of the probe. He shifted it backwards and forwards a few times, making absolutely sure that it was solidly positioned, and then very gently began to lever on the cover.

It was reluctant to move, and after a couple of minutes Mike backed off, removing his hands from the control gloves and flexing them.

"Problem?" Chris asked unnecessarily.

"The lid should be hinged, but I can't shift it, and I'm worried about doing damage if something slips."

"Hmm." Chris squinted at the screen. "The bone's a mess, but it looks to be superficial - is it just me, or is the chip not flat?"

Mike took a second look at the top surface, then shifted the light source around. "You're right. I guess it was deformed when he was still growing - I thought it was just the light, but look at it. This corner's definitely twisted. I really don't want to have to cut my way in. Metal fragments could make things much worse."

He backed the camera off, moved the whole thing closer to Mark's head, then brought it in close, angled to see the edge of the chip. "There we go. I'll unscrew the hinges and try lifting it straight up."

"Hinges and screws?" Chris frowned. "That's horrible."

"Blame Comrade Vladinov, rest his soul. You'll remember the two clips on the models we put in? The old Russian ones are hinged at the back, slightly sprung at the front to make sure the lid didn't shift once it was put in. And this one's jammed good."

Five minutes of painstaking work later and the tray at his side held seven minute screws. The last was much stiffer than the others, and Mike forced himself to breathe slowly and calmly, keeping every movement slow, not applying too much force. He really didn't want to shear the head off - that could leave him with no option but to drill it out, which would produce metal fragments just the same as cutting would. Quarter of a turn at a time, take the pressure off what he suspected was the world's smallest Phillips-head screwdriver, then do the same again. The threads weren't that long. He must be nearly there.

Finally, the tiny screw came loose and he saw the cover shift as it came out, the holes no longer lining up. Getting this thing back on wasn't going to be easy - but he'd worry about that later. For now, he needed the cover off. He deposited the screw alongside its friends in the tray, and replaced the screwdriver with the larger flat probe before going back to levering the cover upwards.

This was much easier. The cover shifted immediately, and it took him only a few seconds to lever it loose. He picked it up carefully and laid it down on the tray with the screws, replaced the lever-tool with a minute needle-nosed probe more suited to the microelectronics inside the chip, and only then did he take a good look at the task facing him.

This was worse than his worst nightmare. Suddenly the tray of sterile microelectronic components at his side was entirely useless. He wasn't aware that he'd sworn out loud until Chris asked, "Mike?"

"Come take a look at this."

"I'm a doctor, not an electronic..." Chris's voice died as Mike zoomed in close to the area of the implant that was concerning him, up near the hinge that had given him so much trouble. "I didn't know his implant had neural integration inside it?"

"It shouldn't have," Mike told him. "On the specs I have, it was sealed before implantation. This just went beyond my knowledge. That's nerve tissue in there, right?"

"Yes, and it's live." Chris swallowed. "And it looks to me like it's made its own connections. What's really worrying me is that this might be his main neural pathway. What if this is why he's never had the same sharp distinction between using and not-using the chip that the others have? Because everything goes through it all the time?"

"I'm thinking that too. I guess in that case it would be real bad to disrupt it?"

"If his autonomic reflexes go through there? It could kill him instantly. We need to run some neurological tests to see what's going on - and even best case scenario, we need to discuss it with Mark. Can I take a look? Andy, watch him like a hawk."

"He's all yours." Mike stepped back from the operating table, still considering the chip. The rest of it didn't look to be in too bad a shape - but that quadrant was a disaster, the tell-tale signs of burnt-out connections just visible through the threads of nerve tissue. That, he could fix - that was pretty much what he'd been expecting once he knew the fault was internal. He hadn't anticipated living tissue inside the chip itself. He was an electronics expert, not a doctor. And what he wanted now, more than anything, was time to do research, and a second opinion. He knew he could have neither. The designer of the chip was dead, and they couldn't leave Mark like this. Doing nothing was not an option.

* * *

><p>"Mark? Mark, can you hear me?"<p>

He could, but it was like fighting through treacle to answer. He couldn't make his mouth form the sounds, couldn't do anything except grunt incoherently. _Chris, something's wrong - I need you to figure it out! I was supposed to wake up fine!_

"We've had a few issues - you're still drugged, and I've closed you up temporarily. Don't worry." Chris's voice was calm and reassuring, and the first edge of his panic faded. "Mike needs to discuss a few things with you before he can proceed - do you feel up to me cutting back on the drugs for a while?"

His instinct was to nod, but his body simply didn't cooperate. He was forced to wrap all of his concentration around the muscles of his lips and tongue, and even then what came out didn't sound much like 'yes'. Oh, man. He didn't like the sound of this one bit.

#

"We believe that a large number of your neurological connections aren't taking their normal path down your spinal cord."

Mark raised his eyebrows - it was easier than fighting the drugs enough to speak, and Bennett continued, obviously reluctantly.

"There are self-made neural connections inside the implant itself - as well as a lot of internal damage. Neurological tests show that many of your motor functions are using them."

This time Mark did sigh, aching and trying desperately to stay relaxed and still, in the hopes that he could avoid going back into spasm for as long as possible. "Cut to the chase, Mike," was what he'd have liked to say. He barely managed the first syllable.

"I can mend your implant, but only if we remove the ad-hoc connections first. We've done tests and all the old pathways are intact. What we propose is that we operate and Chris removes the excess neural tissue, while I disable all the malfunctioning parts of the implant. Once your body's accustomed itself to functioning without the implant, I can go back in and replace the damaged circuits."

"I th-" Mark stopped, still struggling with the remnants of the relaxant, and rephrased with as few words as possible. "Won't I reject? Too old."

"To be implanted, yes. But everything I'll need to replace is internal to the implant. Your immune system won't know it's changed."

"Nerves - how did they get there?"

"Whoever implanted you originally didn't make enough allowances for growth. The case buckled and split round one of the anchor points. It obviously happened a long, long time ago, probably when you were five or six and growing fast. It's stable now. I'm not even going to try to repair it."

"How long?"

Mike's answer of 'a couple of hours' didn't answer the question he'd meant to ask, and Mark sighed in frustration before trying to rephrase the question. It wasn't needed - Chris had clearly understood his frustrated, abbreviated slurring.

"I can't see it taking long to get you back on your feet - a few days, maybe. Once we've got some normal reflexes I think it would be safe to repair the implant. Provided you promise me you'll get fit again without relying on it."

"I can manage that." Speech was getting easier, but at the same time the muscles in his legs were starting to twitch uncomfortably. Mark grimaced and bent over to rub at his right calf - not that it helped, he'd learnt that all too well over the past few months - and Chris held up a syringe.

"If you're happy with what we're going to do, I suggest I give you something to help you sleep now, and we'll operate first thing in the morning. There's no point waiting around."

"What's the risk?"

"We just plain don't know." Chris's face was earnest, open. The face of a man he'd trusted absolutely, until he'd told him he was fine five months earlier. "But it's the only option we have, I'm afraid. You can't stay like this."

Mark replied by groaning and closing his eyes. Controlling the spasms in his legs was getting harder by the minute. Chris was right. The drugs were too strong to be practical, and he couldn't cope without them for more than a few minutes at a time. A few days to get back on his feet was nothing. He'd worked his way back to fitness before.

"Do it." He paused, locking everything in a technique he'd perfected to hide yet another muscle spasm. "And I could use some more relaxants."

"I know. Don't worry, Mark. We'll fix you."

_You said that this morning_, a tiny voice said inside him. Mark pushed it down hard, waiting for the prick of the needle and the relief that the drugs would bring. Chris and Mike were the very best at what they did. They'd made mistakes before, but now they knew what was going on. This time they would put things right for him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mark, can you hear me?"

_He always says that, _was his first, confused, thought. Following rapidly on from that was how much he loathed the aftermath of anaesthesia; his head full of cotton-wool and every thought taking twice as long as usual. The ghastly blurriness somewhere between brain and breathing muscles wasn't back, though. And, for the first time in weeks, he was neither drugged to the eyeballs on relaxants nor having to fight his body's desire to spasm.

"Yes," he said, and it came out clearly, albeit croakily.

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Anaesthetic," he mumbled, his head swimming horribly.

"I know. You were under for almost four hours. I'm washing it out of your system as fast as I can - the implant's not helping so much any more."

He hadn't bargained on that. "What's gone?"

"I think I should explain everything when you're feeling -"

"_What's gone_?" He put every ounce of command into it, and even with his eyes shut he felt Chris stiffen. Well, he hadn't lost that ability, at any rate.

"The part of the chip that regulates power transfer was very badly shot, and Mike's disabled it almost completely for now."

"Flat battery?"

Chris chuckled. "You are feeling better. Not exactly, but Mike can explain the details to you later. Basically, all your speed enhancements are down, and anything else which involves energy-borrowing. No fast healing. Nothing which would leave the chip needing to recharge."

"Jump?" he asked.

"If it was relevant - which it's not - you could take it for a short time. I doubt you have the power to transmute, though, or to fire a jump-drive."

His eyes opened, even though he knew it would make the world spin worse. "Tell me it's not permanent."

"It's not permanent. All we need is for everything to settle down, get you some normal reflexes back, and the next op will just be electronic repair. Now, I want you to sleep the rest of the anaesthetic off. Tomorrow we need to get you started on some rehab, make sure everything's working and coordinated, and I know some people who will be very pleased to see you."

Mark drew a shaky breath. "They must hate me."

"You want to know how many queries I've fielded in the last two days from a certain ready room not a million miles from here? They don't hate you. They're very glad to see you back. Now, go to sleep."

* * *

><p>Waking up warm, relaxed and comfortable, not so drugged he could barely think straight, and in his own time, was something Mark hadn't experienced in, well, a long time. In fact, he wasn't immediately sure he was awake - he'd dreamed of recovery before now, and woken up shaking with the need to be back in the dream instead of an increasingly hellish reality.<p>

He'd never remembered what that reality had been like inside the dreams, though. Mark opened his eyes cautiously, and was rewarded with the entirely normal sight of the Medical sideroom, lights dimmed to a level appropriate for sleep, white walls, white ceiling. A stand was positioned close to the head of his bed, dripping the colourless contents of two separate bags into him, and next to it stood a trolley holding a bunch of monitoring equipment wired to the patches on his chest and back, flashing silent indications that he still had a pulse as well as a variety of other things he didn't recognise.

He was just considering whether and how he should announce that he was awake (pulling off the heart monitor leads would get attention, he was fairly sure, but not exactly make him popular with the medical staff) when the door opened and Chris Johnson came in.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better," Mark told him. "One hell of a lot better. And hungry and thirsty."

Chris stood where he was, half in shadow, but still showing a mixture of emotions playing across his features. "Mark, I let you down. I-"

"Doc -"

"No, let me say it. I screwed up. I didn't believe you had a physical problem, and I should have kept looking. I made a huge mistake. It won't happen again."

Mark opened his mouth and shut it again. Fought for self-control, and won, just. Chris's mistake had cost him five months of hell. It didn't matter that he knew intellectually that it had been just that - a mistake. Or that he could have come back much sooner had he chosen to. Emotionally he'd have liked nothing more than to plant his fist under the left side of the doctor's jaw. See him hit the back wall of the room and slide to the floor. Just once. Then he'd have found it a whole lot easier to forgive and forget properly. Since that wasn't a remotely acceptable way to interact with his doctor, he pushed the desire down. Hard.

Chris cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. "Before you eat, I'd like to test your reflexes. If you feel up to it."

"Sure, doc," Mark told him. "Just make it quick. I'd kill for toast and coffee right about now."

"Toast I can approve. Coffee - maybe not just yet." Chris lifted the head of his bed and folded the blankets down. "Okay. Now, can you give me your right hand?"

It worked. His left hand worked. Reflexes fine, control fine. Even a fair amount of strength. Chris was nodding, ticks were appearing in the right-hand column of the list, and Mark had started to feel a whole lot better.

And then Chris turned the page on his checklist and casually said, "Let's take a look at that right leg next. Can you pull your knee up for me?"

Nothing happened. Nothing at all. And Mark's world crashed around him.

"Not working?" Chris asked, and Mark couldn't speak at all.

The clipboard went on the bed, and Chris's steadying hand went down on his right knee. "Can you feel that?"

Yes, of course he could - did Chris really think he'd have taken this long to realise that he couldn't feel anything? "I can't move my legs."

"Can you feel -"

"_I can't move my legs!_" Absolute, white panic washed over him and his voice cracked in despair. _This isn't happening. This can't be happening._

"Steady on there, Mark."

"What have you done to me?"

"I'm sure this is temporary -"

"Temporary? Or maybe it's psychological? Maybe I'm imagining it?"

"Mark -"

"Get out!" He knew, really, that it wasn't Chris's fault. He didn't care. "Get the hell out of here!"

He thought Chris had said something as he left, but it didn't matter what. Mark was doubled over, shaking with effort, trying again and again to get his legs to move. Feet. Anything. They wouldn't even twitch.

He had no idea how long he was there, desperation leading him to try one thing after another, the same thing over and over again, rubbing useless muscles, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise, anything to try to make his legs work. The door didn't reopen until he'd abandoned all hope, slumped wretchedly forwards, too miserable to care how uncomfortable he was.

"Mark, I need you to lie back for me."

He simply ignored it. And Chris's subsequent pleading about how he was only recently out of surgery. It took Chris's assistant coming in and informing him they were going to lie him back, now, and for them to start doing so, for him to co-operate at all, and once he was lying back he simply stared at the ceiling until they left him alone.

* * *

><p>When the ready room phone finally rang, Tiny was the one next to it. Heart in mouth, he picked it up. "Yes?"<p>

"Chris Johnson here." The tone of voice alone told him that all was not well. His face must have done the same for the rest of them, because Princess and Keyop were alongside him in moments, Jason's eyes locked on his from the other side of the table.

"Chris? What's wrong?" He felt the phone receiver flex in his hand, and made a huge effort to relax his grip before it broke. _Please, let him not be dead. This was supposed to be a relatively simple operation!_

"The neurological rerouting hasn't happened as we'd expected. You remember what I said about -"

"Yes, I remember. How bad is it?"

"At the moment, he appears to be paralysed from the waist down."

The phone cracked in his hand and went dead, as time stopped. _Paralysed_.

"Your hand's bleeding," Princess said, wide-eyed.

"I don't care. You heard that?"

"Of course we did." Jason was already heading for the door, and Tiny hurried after him.

"Mark may not want to talk -"

"I'm damn sure he won't want to talk. I don't care. You want to stay here and read your magazine, be my guest."

Four of them entered Medical together, Jason slightly in the lead. He couldn't have looked more intimidating in birdstyle, Tiny thought as he matched step to his left. Princess, on Jason's right, was almost running to keep up. Keyop _was_ running.

Chris looked up from his computer as the double doors slammed shut behind them, face haggard. "Why-"

"Where is he?" The voice was a Condor snarl, and Chris flinched back, briefly.

"In no state to talk to anyone."

"To hell with that. Tell me what's wrong and how you're going to fix it."

Chris opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, swallowed, and buried his head in his hands. That said all Tiny needed to know. Total disaster, no idea why, no idea how to put it right.

Jason disappeared into the sideroom which was, logically, the only place Mark could be, and Tiny decided that was probably for the best. He managed to catch Keyop by the back of his belt as he tried to follow.

"Leave it to Jason."

"Want to see Mark!"

"Tiny's right," Princess said, her voice high-pitched, fragile and unhappy. "Mark's had a terrible shock. Let Jason talk to him. Chris, can you tell us what went wrong?"

"I wish I knew." The doctor sounded as strained as Tiny had ever heard him - and he'd been bad after Mark had disappeared. "Mike Bennett's sure the nerves weren't damaged in the operation, initial tests confirm it - and Mark's got sensation, he just can't move."

"That doesn't make much sense. Can I do anything?"

Chris shrugged miserably. "I doubt it - but hey, a second pair of eyes on research can't hurt, while I get the neurospecialists in."

"Not your fault," Keyop put in suddenly. "Chris, you're _good_. We trust you."

The doctor managed half a smile. "Thank you, G-3. I do appreciate that. But I have to re-earn that trust. Mark thinks I failed him, and he's right."

_That's all we need - our team doctor in a state of depression and self-doubt_. Tiny sat down at the second terminal, trying to project support and enthusiasm. "Okay. So I need to look up...what? Cases of paralysis with normal sensation? I didn't know that was even possible."

"It's certainly rare..." Chris's voice tailed off as his attention shifted to a point over Tiny's shoulder. "Jason?"

"He didn't want to talk." The flat tone said more than any emotion could have.

"Maybe I should try?" Princess's voice was uncertain, and Tiny's "No" was simultaneous with Jason's.

"We need to leave him a while," Jason said decisively. "Chris, I'll be back tomorrow. Let me know if he wants to talk before then." His grip on Keyop's shoulder was uncompromising, and Princess followed the pair of them out, throwing one last regretful glance towards the sideroom before the door shut behind her.

* * *

><p>Princess couldn't sleep that night. Couldn't get beyond the overwhelming waves of horrified sympathy coupled with devastated fury. Mark paralysed was awful beyond belief - but how much of it was Mark's own fault, for delaying his return for months instead of coming back after a few days, once he'd made his point? Jason had been even briefer than usual in his description of Mark's condition when he'd been called to the gatehouse, but it been obvious that there was something seriously physically wrong with him. If he'd come back earlier, maybe they could have fixed him?<p>

And then there was the part of herself which she kept trying to suppress. The part which said that Mark had made a promise, months back, that once they weren't in the same chain of command they could have a relationship. If he'd meant that, it could have happened. Instead, she meant so little to him that he'd gone away for months without even letting her know he was alive. His promise had only ever been an excuse to keep her quiet. And that hurt more than she could ever admit to anyone.

Around five in the morning she gave up altogether, stripped a soaked pillowcase off her pillow, and left the damp pillow to dry in the early morning sunshine just starting to creep through her window. Mark knew that Jason hadn't given up on him, but he didn't have any idea how she felt. What if, right about now, he was waking up, alone and terrified, with nobody to talk to except a doctor who had no answers for him?

#

There was an alarm on the door of Medical, but she knew full well that it didn't trigger until the door was opened a normal amount. Princess pulled one of the double doors towards her a couple of inches, pushed its partner away a similar amount, and slipped sideways through the narrow gap. No bells, and no doctor rushing to see what had gone wrong this early in the morning.

The door to the sideroom was ajar, and Princess slipped through it just as easily, and stood in the almost-dark while her eyes adjusted. It was a bare, clinical room, containing only equipment and a bed. Mark lay sprawled on his left side, facing away from her, his breathing quiet and even.

He looked exactly the same as he always had when asleep. Completely relaxed, ridiculously young. But the bed was _wrong_. The top half was the same tousled mess Mark had always made of it. The bottom was immaculate. Not that Princess had exactly spent much time in her commanding officer's bedroom - but she'd shaken him awake more than once. She'd never seen him in a bed which didn't look as if the sheets had been used for tug-of-war by a pack of two year olds.

_Paralysed_. She'd been an idiot to come - and thank heavens he was fast asleep. Whatever would she have said if he'd been awake? He needed somebody strong to help him, not someone who would only weep on his shoulder. She had to get out of here now, before he ever realised she'd been here. The last thing he needed was her, her insecurities, and her need for him.

#

Only when he heard the double doors close with a near-silent click did Mark roll over, eyes wide open, to stare at the empty doorway.


	4. Chapter 4

Jason looked around him at the impromptu meeting he'd called in his quarters. Nobody had asked why it was here and not in the ready room. He suspected, though, that they knew why he'd done it, rather than not thought it odd.

"We have to do this right. Mark needs help. But he needs space too, and right now he can't make any for himself. We have to be careful not to crowd him."

Princess nodded. She had the air of someone who'd had no sleep and less rest, and the haunted look he'd come to associate with her worrying about Mark. She'd deny it, though. So he ignored it.

"We go see him every day. But not for long. Not unless he wants us to stay."

"Maybe we should go all together? Just once? Briefly? I agree we shouldn't crowd him, but just so we've done it?"

"No." Jason was quite sure on this one. Having the whole rest of his team turn up in a mass show of support might well feel good for Mark, while they were there. Having them walk out together, without him...that would have to be the worst feeling ever.

"And Rick?" Tiny asked. "Is he part of this? I noticed we're not discussing this in the ready room."

"Rick?" Jason shrugged. "You think having him turn up and say 'hi, Mark, I'm having a great time doing your job' would be a good idea?"

"I guess not," Tiny subsided.

Keyop, though, was wearing a decidedly shifty expression, one Jason didn't dare leave unchallenged. "I mean it, Swallow. You try to push in there when he wants to be alone and he'll go ballistic."

He hadn't anticipated the eyes filling with tears, or the wordless sniff. Keyop wasn't a kid any more, and maybes didn't upset him. Keyop's eyes weren't right, either, definitely pinker than normal, and now that he looked more closely, the lids were slightly swollen. No, something had gone down already. _Damn_.

"What happened?" Tiny asked, putting a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I...snuck in there this morning. I really wanted to see him, Jason! Just to talk. Just to say we're here for him. He was...mean."

"Like I said. He needs space." Jason looked around the faces, reading acquiescence, if not complete agreement. "I've been there. Trust me on this. Now, Keyop. If you've already pissed him off, you need to stay away for a couple of days. Then you can go back with one of us."

Keyop looked at the floor, and Jason caught his chin, forcing the much shorter man to look steeply up at him. "I mean it! No sneaking back there. You could lose his friendship forever."

This time the eyes widened in horror, and Jason knew he'd been believed. He let go, and Keyop instantly dived for the comfort of Princess's arms. She caught Jason's eye over the top of Keyop's head.

"Maybe I should go - you've already talked to him. But what do I _say_, Jason?"

Jason shrugged. "Not 'where the hell have you been'. Apart from that...whatever. Just don't push it. If he doesn't want to talk, leave him alone."

She nodded, face set in determination.

"You go see him now," Tiny said. "I'll go this afternoon. Jason's right - we need to go easy on him. Not march in there all accusations and demands for explanation. And definitely not rub his face in the fact that we're still a team and he isn't part of it any more."

From the flush on what he could see of Keyop's face, still buried against Princess's side, Jason was pretty darn sure something like that had happened already. Too bad. Mark wasn't a child, and had obviously stood up for himself. They did need to be careful it didn't happen again, though. Not just for Mark's sake. They'd all been thrown by their former commander's return, and he was very grateful the alarm hadn't gone since. They needed to calm down and get used to the idea that Mark was back but still sick, and that for them nothing had changed. They were still G-Force, they still had a job to do, and they still didn't have the Eagle.

* * *

><p>"Mark? Are you asleep?"<p>

_Well, that was a stupid question_, she chided herself instantly. _What's he going to say? Yes?_

The eyes opened to look at her. "No."

Her heart sank. She wished desperately that she'd figured out what to say in advance, because now she was lost. "How are you feeling?" _And that was about as bad a question as I could have asked_. _Come on, Princess. He's your friend. Talk to him!_

"Fine."

She hesitated desperately, looking anywhere but at him, and then realising what she was doing and catching his eye awkwardly. "Um...can I get you anything? Water?"

"No, thanks."

"I...we've missed you, Mark. Very much. We're so glad you've come back."

The face twisted. "Not that I'm much use to anyone."

"Not yet." _Don't tell him he's going to be fine_. That much she did remember. Tiny had insisted on it. Mark knew full well that they didn't know what had gone wrong, and telling him the opposite would only make it sound like she thought he was an idiot.

"Maybe not ever." The blue eyes closed again, the face going hard. "I'm glad it's working out with Rick."

She froze for just a moment, but he didn't seem to notice. Now that was an area they really could use Mark's advice on - their fifth member wasn't gelling as part of the team, wasn't catching up the way they needed, wasn't much use at all. But she couldn't possibly talk about that, not now. It could only make him feel more guilty that he wasn't part of the team any more. She settled on a neutral "Yes" and cast around frantically for something else to say. She found nothing, and the eyes stayed closed. This had to be what Jason had been talking about. He wanted space.

"Anyway, I've got to go. Training. I'll be back soon, Mark. Let me know if there's anything I can bring you. We really are glad you're back."

"Yeah. Bye."

#

She didn't so much as stop in the main area of Medical, instead hurrying to the nearest elevator, swiping her bracelet across the panel such that she had priority use, and heading up to the top floor where she had her quarters. Ten yards, and she was inside, the door was shut, and only then did she collapse face down on the bed and cry as if her heart would break. How could he do it? How could he sit there, propped up on pillows, and say he was glad they'd found a replacement for him? And how could she possibly stay strong enough never to break down in front of him and share how much she cared about him? That she knew he hurt inside, and that seeing him like this tore her apart? She had to stay strong for him. She just had to.

* * *

><p>"And how are you doing this morning?"<p>

Mark considered pretending to still be asleep, but he was quite sure that the psychiatrist would see right through him. Instead he opened his eyes and pushed himself back into a slightly more sitting position.

"Nothing's changed. Don't you think you'd have heard if it had?"

"I expect the entirety of black section would have heard." Samuels pulled a chair up to the bed. "I hear you've had visitors."

Mark grimaced. "Everyone's come to tell me how much they missed me, yes."

"You sound like you're not convinced."

"Not that." He sighed, trying to keep his attention on the man when all it wanted to do was wander away into happier memories. "They missed me, and now I'm back. But I missed them too, and the things we did together, and I still can't do them! I just want to be fixed."

"That may be part of the problem." Samuels was good at hiding his own emotions, but Mark was better at reading them. The man was apprehensive about what he was about to say. "It's been four days now. There's no need for you to lie in bed all the time. You could go do some things together if you wanted to."

"In _that_?" He flicked a single disgusted glance at the wheelchair in the corner of the room.

"It's just a tool. A medical aid."

"No."

"Your call. Are you ready to talk about where you went when you left?"

"_No_." Mark locked his eyes on the ceiling, forcing himself to count the patterns of reflected light from the equipment. Anything other than what he actually wanted to do, which was lean forward, grab the irritating little man by the collar, and tell him exactly where he could stick his oh-so-careful probing questions.

"You ought to. Fill in the gap for them. It would be much easier for all of you to talk freely then."

How had he ever thought Samuels was helpful? Damned interfering busybody who had not the faintest idea what Mark was going through, how he felt, what he needed. What wasn't to talk, or to go for a ride in a stupid wheelchair. It was to get fixed. A medical problem. Let the doctors do their job.

"Mark? Can we talk about this now?"

He simply ignored the man. Talking did nothing. Never had, never would.

* * *

><p>"How's he doing?" Chris Johnson asked as Samuels closed the door of the sideroom behind him.<p>

The psychiatrist held one hand up, walking towards the other end of the main medical area before speaking in as low a voice as he thought would be audible. "Not well. He's not talking to the others, from what he said?"

Chris raised his eyebrows. "They've certainly talked to him. They've done pretty much what I would have suggested - spread visits out, gone in singly, in couples, just popped in for a couple of minutes. Not putting pressure on him."

"Problem is, he recognises the tricks. He knows that something non-spontaneous is going on, and of course he fears the worst."

"What do you suggest?"

He shook his head. "I need to stop making suggestions. The best thing that can happen now is that it plays itself out naturally for a while. Actually, the best thing that could happen would be for someone to come up with a treatment. I think that if there was progress being made he'd cope a whole lot better. Any chance of that?"

Chris sighed. "I hope so. It's an unusual set of symptoms, which means that I've had a lot of interest from the top experts without having to push for it and draw attention to who he is. But nobody's come up with anything yet, and I have one miserable patient, and four people who are desperate to help and don't know how. What do I tell them?"

"To be themselves." Samuels gathered his coat from where it had been lying over the back of a chair. "Has a single one of them told him to pull himself together? I doubt it. Right now he could use someone losing their temper and telling him exactly what they think, far more than sympathy. That's not something we can manufacture, though. It either happens or it doesn't. Keep going, Chris. He's still Mark. He doesn't need to be treated differently just because his legs don't work."

#

Chris hesitated for a long time after Samuels had gone. Spontaneity was all very well, but so far he knew of only one of them that had tried it - and Keyop had fled from Mark's room in tears. Nothing had been said since in his hearing, but he was almost certain that Jason was running this one with military precision. He wouldn't take kindly to being told he was doing the wrong thing. Princess was frantically unhappy with the whole situation. Which left him with only one possible option. Tiny.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Mark! You can't still be sleeping this time of the morning!"<p>

Mark dragged himself out of the depths of what had been a most enjoyable daydream and glared at his disturber. "Why the hell not?"

"Because..." Tiny looked blank. "Because it's a beautiful day out there, and you should come see some of it?"

"No, thanks."

"Because Keyop's developed the world's most revolting mixed soda, and you really ought to try it!"

Mark counted to five, but only got to three.

"Because -"

"Forget it, okay! I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to walk out of here on my own two feet, and that's _it_."

"Mark, you need to -"

"Don't you tell me what I need to do!"

He'd thought he was being set up all along, ever since Keyop had woken him from a sound sleep with a cheery demand to know exactly what he'd been doing for the past four months, oh, and when did he think he'd be back on the team? This just confirmed it. He'd had his week of sympathy, and now they'd like him back to normal, thank you very much.

Tiny stood his ground. So much for his authority, then. "You have to snap out of it, man! You're never going to heal, acting like this!"

"I'm never going to heal? Or you're not?" Mark knew he should stay silent. Knew, and couldn't, not any longer. "You want me happy and laughing, sitting in that chair and waiting at the door for you to come back from missions, right? Not going to happen, Tiny. You need to face it. I'm not going to pretend everything's okay to make you feel better. I _won't_. You can like it or not, and right now I don't care."

Tiny had stiffened at the start of his tirade, and now he stood up even taller, if that was possible. "If that's the way you want it, Mark. I've tried. We're here, when you want us."

"I don't want you!" He heard it, knew what it sounded like, and simply didn't care any more. "Get _out_! And when you come back, don't even think of telling me what I have to do! And the same goes for the rest of you. I'm done playing 'whose turn is it to visit poor crippled Mark this afternoon'."

#

When the door closed behind Tiny - not slammed, pulled carefully shut in a controlled manner which made him feel even worse - Mark made a real effort to convince himself that what he had done was for the best. They needed to forget about him and get on with saving the galaxy. If they never came back to see him, that would be all he could ask for.

They wouldn't do it - would they? Wouldn't leave him here, all alone, facing a life of useless paralysis? Surely not. For a minute he seriously considered calling for Chris, to get him to ring through to the ready room, get Tiny back here so he could apologise for losing it. Anything not to be alone.

He didn't do it. Not quite. He might not be able to walk, or do anything which mattered, but he had just enough self-respect left not to beg. He could cope without them. He _would_ cope without them, for now. They'd come back, because no matter what he'd said, they knew full well that he needed them. He had enough faith in Jason to be quite sure of that.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, Mr Jarrald, I'm sorry I can't shed any more light on this for you." The latest specialist - this one an Australian whose name Mark hadn't bothered to remember - stood up and held out his hand. "The neural connections are there. They should be working. My best guess is that they will, when they're ready. It would be most unusual for anyone to maintain sensation without movement."

"So I'm unusual." Mark heard the bitterness in his own tone, and made more of an effort with his second comment. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Good luck," the man told him. "And - keep yourself fit. It'll make life a lot easier, whichever way it goes."

_You mean when I'm stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life_. Mark didn't answer out loud, just shut his eyes in exhaustion. He was starting to wonder if Chris had called in every neurospecialist on the planet. Not to mention the Rigan one. Every one had their own batch of tests to run on him. Every one had been given the same half-truth about an implantation gone wrong. None had had the slightest idea why he couldn't move his legs, or had anything other than vague optimistic noises to say about whether he'd ever be able to.

The doctors left the room and Mark sagged back into the pillows. No amount of sleep seemed to shake the all-pervading tiredness that the neurological tests left him with - and it wasn't even proper tiredness. It wasn't like he'd done anything to _get_ tired. It was just - his life was on hold, and nobody seemed to have the slightest idea how to get it started again.

The next person to come into his room was Anderson. Years of instinct took over, and he sat bolt upright. "Chief!"

"How are you doing, Mark?" The voice was the same as ever. It felt wrong to be sitting here. For the reply to be something irrelevant, rather than a specific comment about their training, about the previous mission. And he was fairly sure he wasn't imagining Anderson's reluctance to look anywhere below the head end of the bed.

"Nothing's changed in three weeks. My legs don't work and nobody knows why. But you already knew that."

"Yes, I did." Anderson pulled a chair over to alongside the bed and sat down facing him. "Mark, I know how hard this must be for you. Chris tells me he's about out of people to ask, and there's nothing you can do but wait. I can at least offer you something to do in the meantime."

Every hair on the back of his neck stood up. "You can?"

"How would you like to take some shifts in charge of Control?"

Mark swallowed. "No, thank you."

Anderson sat forward. "This isn't some kind of sop for your feelings, Mark. We honestly think you'd be excellent at it. And the team's more than happy about the idea."

He stared. "Jason suggested this?"

"No." Mark continued to stare, and Anderson continued reluctantly. "He said you'd hate it, even if you would be darn good at it."

"He was right. I don't want to be a base controller. I don't think I ever will."

"I wish you'd try it before you make up your mind."

"I have tried it - when you had your heart problems, remember? I hated every second of it."

There was sympathy in the man's eyes. "I know you'd rather be out there yourself, Mark. This is the closest I can do."

"I don't want it."

Anderson at least knew when pushing him was a waste of time. He stood up. "If you're sure, you're sure. But please - just think about it. I know you, and I can't believe you want to sit about doing nothing. If not base control, then what are you going to do?"

He left without waiting for an answer, and Mark sat and fumed silently. If he wanted to sit in a base controller's chair, did they really think he wouldn't have suggested it himself? At least Jason had remembered how he felt about it - but really, couldn't he have put Anderson off a little more efficiently?

He could hear voices outside his room, Anderson and Chris Johnson. Could have listened in, if he'd wanted to. He didn't. It would just be more of Anderson demanding updates and insisting that something be done, Chris telling him which eminent neurologist would be coming in next. He simply didn't care any more.

It wasn't a long discussion, and then Chris was standing in his doorway. "Mark? Can we talk?"

"What about?"

"About where we go from here."

Mark snorted. "Out of bed would be good. Oh, wait. I can't _ walk_ any more."

"I wasn't talking physically."

"Maybe you should have been."

"Please, Mark." The doctor drew up a chair alongside his bed. "You're not sick any more - you're fully recovered from the operation. You can't lie in a hospital bed forever."

"I will not accept that this is all I can have. _I need help_, okay? I'm here. Not running away and hiding. Isn't that what you all wanted?"

"But you're not showing any interest in trying to help yourself. You should be in rehab, not lying here. Dr West raised some concerns with me, and considering everything I've seen I think he's right."

"Right about what?"

"He thinks you may be clinically depressed, and it can't be helping your recovery. I know how you feel about drugs, but I'd really like for you to consider it. I'm sure Dr Samuels can give you something which will help. A lot."

Mark shut his eyes and lay back, fighting the desire to break down completely. Not only his body failing him, now his mind was too? A wheelchair, and antidepressants to make him _like_ it?

"No."

He heard Chris sit forward, could imagine the earnest, sympathetic expression on the man's face. "Dr Samuels will be coming in tomorrow afternoon, Mark. Nothing would make me happier than for him to tell me you're fine mentally. It's time you either got a grip on yourself or accepted that you need help to do it. Now, I'm going to leave you to consider it. I'd really like for you to call the Chief and tell him you've changed your mind about base control."

The door shut behind the doctor, and he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Time to leave Medical. Rehab. Or therapy and drugs which he didn't need.

Didn't need? Or wouldn't admit that he did need? Was he genuinely clinically depressed, or just miserable? And would sitting in base control listening to the team go out without him really help?

No. Of that, at least, he was sure. The rest - less so. He hated his situation, but was he really at the point where he needed his brain chemistry altered to cope with it? Or could he handle it, if he decided to do so? Was this why the team had all but stopped coming by - not because he was coping, but because he'd become a self-indulgent mess who did nothing but wail about his own situation? For the first time in three weeks, Mark took a good long look at how he'd been behaving - the sulks, the yelling, the whining, the complete lack of interest in anything anyone else had said to him - heck, he couldn't even remember whether the team had been called out since he'd been in here! He certainly hadn't asked. Who was this self-pitying waste of space he'd become? No wonder nobody wanted to talk to him any more.

He could at least try to put things right. Get out of here and explain to the team why he didn't want to be their base controller. He certainly didn't want to be having that conversation in here, where things between him and the team had been stilted at best. The familiarity was gone, and he'd never known how much he prized it until he'd lost it. But - maybe it would be better outside Medical, in the relaxed setting of the ready room? The wheelchair was right alongside the bed, and while he'd not been anywhere in it alone, it couldn't be that hard. He hated the idea of needing it even more than he hated being in bed - at least people in hospital beds were there because they were sick and recovering. But, just temporarily, maybe he should try. On his own terms. Because Anderson did have one point. Mark absolutely loathed sitting about doing nothing.

The wheelchair sat at the foot of the bed, in easy reach if he just shuffled down a bit. Which he was perfectly capable of doing. And while he'd been essentially manhandled into it every time he'd been talked into sitting in it, he was pretty sure that if he put his mind to it, he could get into it unaided. People did this all the time, didn't they? People who were genuinely sick, permanently crippled. If they could manage, so could he.

Mark stripped the covers off the bed and dropped them over the far side to give himself a clear field of operations, and made a long arm to grab the back of the chair and pull it up to alongside the head of the bed. Here he had various solid supports to hang onto, and the chair was at least prevented from rolling backwards any further by the wall. He suspected he really should be doing this with the brakes on, but there was no way for him to apply them until he was actually in the chair. He'd just have to be careful. He took a deep breath, felt for a solid handhold on the head of the bed and another on the sideframe, and lifted himself over the edge.

* * *

><p>"Mark!" Chris looked genuinely pleased to see him as he wheeled the chair carefully out of the sideroom. "I'm glad to see you out of bed. Did you want to go outside?"<p>

"I thought I'd go see the team."

Chris grimaced. "Sorry, Mark. They're away on Arcturus. They may not be back for several days."

"Oh." Loneliness washed over him, and was replaced with self-loathing. What did he expect - for G-Force to put saving the galaxy on hold because their ex-commander might finally fancy a chat?

"Will you bite my head off if I suggest a trip to the rehab guys?"

Mark winced. "To do what? Basket-weaving?"

"Only if you want to." Chris's glance, was, quite unmistakeably, uncertain as to whether he dared risk a joke or not. One more person for whom the easy familiarity had gone. "I thought you might want to do something more physical. Dr West was correct - it will make things easier for you if you stay fit. Not just because of getting in and out of the chair, but because physical activity produces the sort of neural stimulation we think your system needs. And you'd feel better if you got properly, physically tired once in a while."

"Maybe."

"Shall I call them and let them know we're coming?"

Mark shook his head as a realisation of just what it was that he was missing swept over him. "You can let them know _I'm_ coming. Give me the room number and I'll take myself down there." _Tell me I need help to do even that and so help me, I am going to explode_.

Chris didn't. Instead he picked up the phone and dialed. "Is Tariq there?"

#

The world was very different from four feet above the floor, Mark decided as he approached the ISO rehab centre with a deep feeling of relief. Not that he'd had any problems he could put his finger on - the ISO building might be vast and sprawling these days, but he hadn't had to go outside. He'd managed to avoid running anyone's foot over, or indeed ramming them behind the knees. And the building itself was easy. ISO, a modern, progressive organisation well aware that it would be held up to criticism for the slightest thing, made very sure its elevator buttons were at a reachable height for wheelchair users and that its doors opened automatically. And, in a military organisation which prided itself on looking after its own, the facilities weren't just there for show. There were plenty of wheelchair users around.

Mark had never really taken any notice of them, and that was pretty much what was happening to him now. It was a bizarre sensation. His expectation had been shock and solicitude, and instead the people around him - security team members, Academy students, admin staff - all, thankfully, strangers, had reacted as though his being in a wheelchair was entirely normal.

It wasn't normal. He would never, ever accept it as normal. He wanted it to trigger shock and disbelief, dammit. Wanted people to react with horror and ask him when he would be back on his feet. The chair wasn't part of who he was. He fully intended that it never would be.

Rehab, unsurprisingly, also had automatic doors, and Mark wheeled right up to the reception desk, grateful for the lack of any queue. The young woman behind the desk smiled winningly at him, displaying perfect white teeth, and Mark resisted the urge to do more than maintain a polite expression. She was, after all, paid to smile at people who were feeling bad about themselves.

"I'm Mark Jarrald. I've come to see Tariq?"

"I'm Tariq." The young man who unfolded himself from the armchair in the corner was mid-twenties, somewhat under six feet tall, and had the features and complexion to match his name. "Come this way and we can talk in private."

Talking wasn't exactly what Mark had in mind, but he guessed it had to be done first. He had a deep, horrible suspicion that this was going to involve some spiel about what a fulfilling life he could still have, how he needed to make the chair part of himself...and he still had a nagging concern about basket-weaving being involved somewhere.

He hadn't anticipated Tariq saying, as the door to what looked like a seriously well-equipped weight room closed behind him, "Since Chris Johnson tells me that suggesting you'll get used to the chair will probably make you want to get out of it and slug me, I thought we'd give that side of rehab a miss. What do you want to do?"

"Anything at all that'll get me out of it." _Isn't that obvious?_

"Mark, it doesn't work that way when you have no movement at all." Tariq perched on the edge of a sloping bench next to a weights machine. "There may not be all that much I can do to help directly. What we can do here is get you fit enough that when the nerves start working properly it won't be such a long road back."

"When?"

"If you want me to use 'if', I will. Your doctors think it will be 'when'."

"I don't need help to use a gym." This was starting to sound less and less like something that was any real use, and more like something Chris thought would make him feel good about himself. Like that was going to happen any time soon.

Tariq nodded, as though he'd expected this. "That's fine. Chris said you might want to work on your own. The equipment's here - I can check you out on it now if that's what you want." Mark couldn't contain his affronted expression, and Tariq continued, " I appreciate you know what you're doing already, but it's different when you can't brace with your legs."

Resisting the urge to ask just what else Chris had told him, Mark nodded slowly. "Okay. Show me."

#

Tariq was right - it was different. And astonishingly tiring. Mark was struggling inside ten minutes, even though his eyes told him the weights involved were pitifully small. Tariq at least knew when not to make encouraging noises, though. The man had sense. And obviously knew what he was talking about. And Mark knew from past experience just how lonely and boring rehab could be when done alone. He was starting to reconsider his statement that he didn't want help.

"I think that will do for today," Tariq said after a while.

"I can do more," Mark told him. Not much more, it was true - but he wasn't done yet. Five repetitions with a bar with next to no weight on the end at all was, well, pathetic.

"You still have to get yourself back," Tariq replied calmly. "It's obvious you're not used to the chair yet, and it's harder work than you'd expect. And I have a couple of suggestions for you to consider, whether or not you're going to go it alone from here."

Mark eased the weight bar back into position and sat up on the bench. "If you tell me to think positive, I really might take a swing at you."

"No, not that. One, I wasn't entirely honest about not being able to help you out of the chair. There are some things we can do which may help. Two, you need a better chair. One that fits you. And three, you need to find yourself a job, or a hobby. Doesn't matter if it's basket-weaving, writing poetry, running a killer role-playing game, or filing - but you need to be spending a fair bit of time thinking about something other than how bad you want your legs to start working."

Mark nodded slowly. "You're not the first to say that."

"Do you have anything in mind? Because if not, I'd recommend you try to find something with a timetable that you have to stick to - it makes it much easier if there's external motivation. You were Team Seven, right? I can have a word with your old C.O. if you like."

"I'll ask him myself," Mark said. Team Seven wasn't the highest powered group in ISO by a long way - and it really would be filing, he was quite sure of it. But it would be something he could do, something useful to the war effort, something which didn't involve sitting and listening as other people did the job he'd loved. And it would be with people who remembered him the way he had been. People who didn't think of him as a useless cripple. The only other place he could have that would be inside black section, and that was just too close to everything that mattered to him.

"Okay. Now, do you want me to help you, or to work on your own? Or we can take it as it comes."

"What did you have in mind? I'll be blunt. I've seen fifteen experts in the last three weeks and none of them has had any particular suggestions. You're a physio."

"Chris told me that, too. Not much fun for anyone." Tariq indicated the other side of the room, a set of parallel bars some three feet from the floor. "What I'd suggest is that you try to stand and put some weight on your feet. I know you've no movement at all. But it will be good upper body exercise, and just maybe being vertical will trigger something. No guarantees. But I could help you try it. If you like, we can start tomorrow."

He could stand on his pride. He could go back to his hospital bed. Or he could stop believing there was a doctor out there with all the answers, and start doing something for himself. He'd walked away before, but only because there was nothing at all he could do, and he knew he was a liability. Out here, away from black section, he could be useful. And not being treated as helpless was a particularly attractive idea.

Team Seven was very much further away than he'd anticipated, especially after the gym workout he'd just had. Maybe Tariq had a point about the chair. Mark rolled to a halt outside Commander Nykinnen's office, rubbing his sore hands together, and only then wondered exactly what he was going to ask and how he was going to ask it.

He'd just decided to go away and come back tomorrow, once he'd figured out what to say, when the door opened.

"Mark! Were you looking for me?"

There wasn't much he could say to that apart from 'yes', and Nykinnen ushered him into his office.

"I'm very glad to see you - I had heard things hadn't gone so well. I'm sorry. But - what can I do for you?"

Mark gulped, pulling the shreds of his self-confidence together. "I'm looking for a job."

"A job?" Nykinnen might have years of life experience on Mark, but he didn't have anything like the experience of staring down the enemy, knowing that you had no plan B and only half a plan A. Nykinnen's shock was wide open on his face. "Mark, I don't think -"

"I can do it, Commander. My legs don't work at the moment, but there's nothing wrong with my brain."

"Good grief, Mark, it's not that I don't think you're up to it!" Nykinnen sat forward in his chair, wearing that calming, steadying expression which he used to such good effect in turning brash eighteen-year-olds into responsible security officers. "It's a waste of your experience. Surely black section -"

"Anderson has offered me a job as a base controller, and I don't want it."

There. It was said, and Nykinnen gave him a long, understanding look. "I can offer you something with a little more distance from the front line, and goodness knows I'd be only too delighted to have you. But it's nothing but paperwork."

"Paperwork's about what I'm up to at the moment." He was having to fight to hold his voice steady - talking about this was much harder than he'd expected.

"Well, in that case..." Nykinnen reached into his desk and pulled out an advertisement, the sort of unofficial document that was passed around internally to try to tempt candidates from one team to another. He passed it across. "This hasn't gone out yet. If you want it, it's yours."

Six months ago, he and Jason would have teased one another about applying for something like this. Executive officer for Team Seven, in charge of training schedules. It was, despite the fact that it was administrative, a military position, which would have him ranked above any of the team's security officers. Which could be a problem.

"Err - officially, I don't meet the requirements for this."

"You don't?" Nykinnen turned his attention to his computer screen. "Darn. I guess I'll just have to get you a promotion." He looked uncertainly at Mark. "I will have to push the sympathy angle to get it through, I'm afraid. You know, and I know, that that isn't why it's being done."

"Promotion?"

"To Lieutenant Commander." He smiled, still a little unsure of Mark's reaction. "I confess, it will make my life much easier to not have to remember to call you Lieutenant."

Mark didn't respond - although the thought that he would be called Commander was more attractive than he'd expected. He went back to reading the advert.

"Training schedules? For everyone?"

"I was wondering how to handle the team members who, shall we say, have a certain amount of creativity applied to the list of courses they've completed. I'd thought I'd have them invent something nobody else would want to do and authorise it directly myself, but it would be much easier if they appeared to be doing something more standard."

Mark nodded. At present that would be Jason, Rick, he suspected Dimitri, and he'd heard they had a new jump-pilot, in such desperate need of experience that they'd broken their own rule and left him in Team Seven while he was getting used to the implants. "So, it's figuring out who gets which course, making sure nobody's overloaded, nobody's slacking, and taking account of their aptitude as well as their ambitions?"

"Exactly."

He took a deep breath. "I'll do it. I'll start whenever you want. Tomorrow."

He'd always had the impression that Nykinnen could tell exactly what it was that people weren't saying. The blond man looked him up and down for several seconds before replying.

"Are you trying to get out of there?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Then - do you have quarters? It would be unremarkable if I arranged for you to have somewhere temporary to stay."

He'd been in Medical ever since his return. He hadn't even thought of where he was going to live - but black section wasn't going to be it. Not least because he wanted out so badly it hurt, but because his old quarters were in the roof of the old building, on the corridor he'd lived on since he'd first come to ISO USA. Back then, the old building had been all there was on this site. Now, it was at the back of a huge, sprawling modern complex, but it was still an old building. The five steps from the level of the elevator to the level of his room might as well have been a thousand.

He swallowed hard. "I don't have anywhere. But you don't have to -"

"I have a whole pack of new officers who will benefit from the experience of a couple of hours dealing with ISO Personnel. Let them do the hard work. And - if you don't mind me saying so - you look wiped. If you really do plan to come in tomorrow, you should go and get some rest."

Mark smiled. That hadn't been said as if Nykinnen thought he was useless, just that he looked tired. Which he was. Genuinely physically tired, with good reason, for the first time in weeks if not months. He'd go back to Medical now, before Chris decided to send out a search party. Tomorrow he'd come down here early - and he'd not go back. There was no real need for him to be in Medical, nothing they could do for him. And no need for him to argue with anyone over it. He was still the same person who'd commanded G-Force, he didn't need their permission, and he sure as hell didn't need their anti-depression drugs. He'd tell them tomorrow that he'd sorted his own life out.


	6. Chapter 6

He'd intended to be early, but by the time he'd washed, eaten, struggled into his clothes, a ridiculous amount of time had passed. It was nearer to ten than nine by the time he finally knocked on Nykinnen's office door the next morning.

"You didn't change your mind, then." Nykinnen indicated a teetering pile of folders on the corner of his desk. "That lot's going to be yours. Still sure you want to do paperwork?"

"I'm sure." Well, sure given the parameters of what was on offer, at any rate.

"Then I'll say this once only. Any time you change your mind and decide to go do something that needs the Eagle, you tell me and go. No hard feelings. I'll cook up a believable reason for why you've gone. That said, we have some things to discuss. Coffee? Do you still drink decaf?"

Well, he did, but... "I guess I don't have to."

"You should take advantage and try the real thing while you can." Nykinnen swivelled round on his chair to face the worksurface under the window where a coffee percolator was dripping away merrily, vying for space with heaps of loose papers, box files, folders, ringbinders and manuals. "How do you drink it?"

"Black, no sugar." It had been white and sugared not so very long ago, but that had been before going to a shop to buy supplies had become something to be dreaded, requiring every shred of concentration if he wasn't to collapse in the street.

Nykinnen presented him with a mug, and Mark sipped at it suspiciously, trying to ignore the warning prickles from his implant that told him this contained a drug. He found it interesting that that was still working. He guessed it was functionality that didn't need the disabled power boost from the implant. At any rate, he found it reassuring. Something still worked the way it should. And it did taste good.

"So," Nykinnen said. "Currently we have forty-seven people on the books of Team Seven as active security officers. Of these, twenty are new Academy graduates on an orientation course and don't come in until Monday. Eight are new transfers from various UN forces, and four are only here for appearances. At least three-quarters of them consider it a personal insult that they were assigned here at all, and they sure as hell aren't going to want to do the basic level courses which are what they need. Nobody ever wants to do language courses, with the exception of Spectran immersion which everyone wants to do. That one's so oversubscribed it's by recommendation only, but it doesn't stop people trying to put themselves on it. The fighter jet courses are in a similar state, except that people are allowed to apply for that one but we're supposed to try to persuade them not to if they're not up to it. And there are a few people who seem incapable of passing basic flight, and will try anything to have a timetable which rules them out of taking it again."

"Oh, man."

Nykinnen grinned. "Did I put you off yet? It's not as bad as it sounds - I was doing it all myself until the powers that be decided to give us twenty new graduates all at once. And I'll give you Sanderson - he's been my assistant for a few months, he knows the ropes. Plus he's ex black section security, so he knows who you are."

Mark frowned. "He went from black section security to Team Seven? What did he do?"

"All I know is that he decided it wasn't for him. No black marks on his record, but it still made rather a mess of his career prospects, and he landed up here for the same reason most people do: he couldn't get anything else."

"So you've put me into his job?" The last thing Mark needed was an assistant bitter at being looked over for promotion.

"No. He's a corporal, and the powers that be took a look at the rank structure here and decided that even on a training team there should be more than one person ranked higher than Lieutenant. Which reminds me - I've put in for your promotion, but since you officially need it to hold the post, you're getting a somewhat irregular field commission right now." Nykinnen handed across a set of insignia. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander."

Mark took it, and only then the realisation struck. "Commander, I'm sorry. I'm not in uniform. I don't even know where mine are."

"I think I can forgive you that, on your first day." Nykinnen stood up. "Come meet the team."

#

"People," Nykinnen's voice cut through the chat in the common room, and there was a general jumping to attention. "At ease. I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Jarrald, my new executive officer. He'll be in charge of Team Seven's training requirements from now on."

Almost all the people in there were strangers to him. Mark very belatedly considered that many of them were older than him. They mostly looked surprised. He'd have been surprised too, to be presented with a new senior officer younger than he was and in a wheelchair to boot. On the faces of those he already knew, though, Mark read all the shocked disbelief he could have wanted.

"Mark?" Dave O'Leary, someone who he couldn't quite believe was still in Team Seven, asked him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"That would be 'what the hell happened to you, _sir_'," Nykinnen corrected him, but with more than a hint of amusement in his voice. "Mark, I'll leave you to catch up. Dave, can you take him through to see Sanderson and Andianov when you've made introductions? I have a meeting now, but I'll be back in this afternoon. Any questions, just shout."

Mark's "Yes, Commander" was instinctive. And then Nykinnen was gone, and he was in a room almost entirely full of strangers with all eyes on him, where his pedigree was as a Team Seven lieutenant who'd vanished without warning six months earlier.

"Question stands. Mark, what the hell? Do you have any idea how long I was quizzed about where I'd taken you? I spent six months thinking I was the last person to see you alive. I'm sure Nykinnen wondered if I'd dumped your body in a ditch somewhere."

He'd forgotten that O'Leary was the one he'd cadged a lift to the station from. At the time he'd not considered, and wouldn't have cared if he had, that his carefully dropped comment about a trip to Washington, when proved to be false, would have O'Leary's integrity brought into question.

"Dave, I'm sorry. I'd just had some seriously bad news. I needed to get away somewhere I couldn't be found, I was about to call a cab, and there you were. I didn't think what it would mean for you when I vanished."

"Bad news that put you in that chair?"

"Yup." Mark took a shaky breath, and slipped back into his old, familiar Team Seven persona. Open, friendly, laid-back. "It's a neurological problem. They've stopped the decline, but..." He shrugged, and indicated the chair.

"Shit. Permanent?"

"They're not sure yet."

"Oh, man. So you get a promotion and a desk job? That sucks. Anyway, who don't you know?"

Mark ended up being introduced to eight people who'd joined in the previous six months and another six who he'd barely known, if indeed their paths had ever crossed, and started to appreciate Nykinnen's insistence on uniform. Uniforms had names on, and in an international organisation, some of the names were downright tongue-twistingly unmemorable.

"So, you want to come see your new office?" Dave asked eventually.

"I have an office?" It hadn't occurred to him that he'd get anything other than a desk in the corner of the main room.

"Well...yesterday evening you had a walk-in cupboard full of old Team Three flightplans. If you're real lucky, 'Mitri and Todd have got rid of the junk by now. But I wouldn't get too excited about it."

He crossed to the long alcove leading off the main area of the room which contained a double wall of lockers, and Mark belatedly realised there was a door at the end, painted the same colour as the walls. He didn't remember ever seeing it opened, and said so.

"There's a second entrance onto the corridor, but the commander thought using this one made more sense, since most people would be going in from here. Todd was running round half an hour ago asking which department did door handles." He tapped on what was, indeed, a handleless door, and it opened to reveal an empty cube of a room, ten feet in all directions, white walls battered from its previous role, a bare lightbulb hanging in the centre. Holding the door was Dimitri Andianov, and behind him an older man whose face did seem vaguely familiar.

"Dimitri, Todd, this is Lieutenant Commander Jarrald," Dave said with some attempt at formality. "Commander, Lieutenant Andianov and Corporal Sanderson."

Mark locked eyes with Dimitri, mentally crossed his fingers that Dave hadn't suddenly become a crack linguist in the past six months, and switched to Russian. "_Of course, you should know me from ISO Russia. Good to see you again, Dimitri_."

"You too, Mark," Dimitri responded in English. "This is Todd."

The other's eyes were wide as he held out his hand for Mark to shake. "Commander Jarrald, it will be an honour to work with you, sir."

Mark grinned to break the tension - Todd was obviously responding to the Eagle, not to a new Lieutenant Commander, and that wasn't the world's best idea. "You'll be sick of me inside a week. And call me Mark, unless it needs to be formal."

"Yes, sir," he replied, and Mark sighed inwardly. This might take some work.

"If this is an office, it's short on the fundamentals."

Dimitri pulled a handful of papers from his pocket. "I'm afraid it never has been an office, although that was its intended purpose. So it does have power, and network connections. We have removed the contents to be stored elsewhere, there is a carpet fitter coming at eleven, and some furniture for this afternoon. And a computer terminal, which I hope I have set up correctly. You may want to have Lieutenant Shayler check it, when he is available. It is not my specialty."

"Sounds like you've got it covered," Mark said, impressed.

Dimitri fiddled with the paper and extracted a keycard, which he handed over. "You have temporary quarters in apartment one of Heron block. There was a box with the contents of your old locker in storage, and it has been sent there. Also," he handed over another piece of paper, "if you can sign this, I can arrange the same for the contents of your previous quarters. I'm afraid they wouldn't release them to my signature alone." His eyes darted to Todd, fiddling with the door handle, and to Dave's retreating back as he headed back into the main area of the commonroom, and he signed, _Can we talk_?

"Heron?" Mark queried out loud. "I don't remember that one."

"It is a new building. Shall I show you? The office where I must take the release form is on the way there."

"Lead on."

Dimitri opened a second door, and Mark followed him out into the corridor and along towards the part of ISO where the administrative offices were situated.

#

Heron block turned out to be on the eastern, seaward side of the main complex, one of three similar blocks recently put up to accommodate the ever-expanding numbers of ISO personnel needed for the war effort. A bland, featureless square box, four rows of identical windows. Mark felt a sudden pang of longing for his cabin at the airfield. What had become of it? He had no idea, and its gravel surround and the two steps up to the door meant he was unlikely to find out any time soon. Maybe Jason would know.

Apartment one was on the ground floor, at the far end of the block from the main door. Mark inserted the keycard in a slot which would have been awkwardly low for anyone standing on their own two feet, and then got himself in a horrible tangle trying to push the door open and move the chair forward at the same time. He felt himself flush as Dimitri came to the rescue, silently pushing the door wide and holding it while Mark used both hands to get his chair inside. There had to be a method for doing that.

"Sir," Dimitri said as he closed the door behind them. "Commander Nykinnen told me that black section authority does not yet know that you are taking this job. I'm sorry, but I need to know what I am supposed to say. I am not comfortable with lying to authority."

"I understand." Mark would have patted the younger man reassuringly on the back, if he'd been able to reach. "Don't worry, Dimitri. I'll call them in a few minutes and make this official. I appreciate what you've done, and that you didn't say anything yesterday."

"Thank you. There is one other thing - Lieutenant North."

"North?" Mark searched his memory. "He's the new jump-pilot, right?"

"He is. Commander Nykinnen spoke to me about him last night. He is concerned about him being here, newly implanted and so very young. He has been away at the Rigan flight academy for the past month, and since we believe he does not know who you are, we wondered if you might keep it that way for now. To see whether he is being as discreet as he needs to be."

Mark nodded. "I can do that - though he may well have heard my name."

"If he has, we have lost nothing. And you are rarely referred to by surname inside black section. Many people are called Mark."

"I certainly don't see any need to tell him who I am. Was." Dammit, he was going to have to get his brain round this somehow. "What's he like?"

"He is very skilled, and very young." Dimitri smiled ruefully. "He will do well. In any case, Commander, I should be getting back, not leaving Todd to work alone. Do you have everything you need?"

Mark hadn't so much as considered the room yet, but he nodded anyway. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Dimitri. You've made a hard day much easier. I appreciate it."

#

'Apartment' was a polite term for what was little more than a large room with a bathroom. Mark wheeled himself into the centre, looking around and trying not to flinch at the obvious design for disabled occupants. Everything was low. Handles to get onto the bed. There was no question he could cope alone in here - once he'd figured out how to get through the door on his own - but it didn't stop him hating the necessity for the extra facilities.

He flicked the TV on, and was rewarded with a news channel. Shots of the Phoenix firing on a giant mecha apparently based on some sort of amoeba/jellyfish creature, with little effect. Mark flinched, then blanked the screen, biting his lip hard. He was going to have to get used to this. He couldn't hide from it completely. The war was not going to go on hold while he recovered.

The main room faced out towards the sea, which was better than overlooking the car parks. There were cooking facilities in the corner - not that he particularly cared, the ISO canteen was close enough that cooking for himself would be unnecessary. That was one advantage over the airfield, he supposed. He still opened the cupboard and peered inside. Dimitri had been at work here too - a box of basic supplies. He would add some real coffee to them as soon as he had the chance.

There was a more battered box on the bed, labelled with his name in someone else's writing, which Mark frowned over until he opened it. This would be the belongings from his old Team Seven locker which Dimitri had mentioned. Not much of use, but there was a Team Seven uniform jacket in there. Mark shook it out, replaced the lieutenant's insignia with the new version Nykinnen had given him, and hung it over the back of a chair. Half a uniform, at any rate.

There was a folder lying beside it on the bed, which he flicked through - information on the TV system, the computer terminal, the phone system, how to apply to use a pool car, which side of the road to drive on. All those things which new arrivals at ISO USA might need to know. Irrelevant to him.

There wasn't much else. Bathroom - standard, apart from handles everywhere, and some kind of motorised lifting seat to get into the bath. Mark wrinkled his nose in disgust, quite sure he could cope without it. Coathooks a foot lower than he felt they ought to be. A desk, a sitting area, cupboards, a motorised curtain to screen off the alcove containing the bed should he want to, in the same blameless geometric pattern as the curtains at the windows. A bookcase, empty apart from a small pile of manuals and some remote controls.

He couldn't put it off any longer. Mark steadied himself before picking up the phone and dialing. "Chris?"

"Mark? Do you have a problem?"

"No. The opposite. I'm discharging myself. I'll be working with Team Seven, and living on site. You can get me on this number, if you need to."

There was a long pause, and then Chris said, "Mark, it's your call. I very much recommend you stick with the rehab, though."

"I plan to."

"And - we're here, if you need us."

_What I need is to be treated like a capable adult again_. He didn't say it. It could gain him nothing, except possibly to make Chris think he wasn't fit to make his own decisions. All he said was, "I'll be seeing you," and he put the phone down.

There. It was done. He was quite sure that recriminations would follow. Anderson would be furious, Ivanov resigned. He suspected he'd just put himself below even Jason in Grant's approval. Jason himself - Mark simply didn't know. The rest of the team, even less. He had a horrible suspicion that they would be relieved. It was six months now. Rick was a solid member of the team, Jason secure in his command. Even had everything worked out, did they need him any more? If he was honest with himself, he couldn't see why. His time with G-Force was over. Now he had to get himself fit, get back on his feet, and then he could go back to Anderson and find out whether the Eagle was needed somewhere other than in a control room. Maybe even follow his father into the Rigan Red Rangers. Mark couldn't restrain a grin at the thought of flying one of those red jets.

And first and foremost on that list was getting fit. Mark reached for the phone again, and dialed the number Tariq had given him.

"Tariq? It's Mark Jarrald here. If you have a free slot, I'd like to take you up on your offer."

The other didn't sound surprised - had Chris been talking to him again? "I'm free now. Do you want to come over?"

"Now would be great." Mark clicked the phone back into the receiver, took a last quick look round his new home, and headed for the door.


End file.
